Strawberries Taste How Lips Do
by Raggedy Dama
Summary: A collection of one shots involving Johnlock kisses, almost kisses, awkward kisses or just mere brushes of lips. The mini stories are mostly unrelated.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: I don't usually write slash …but when I do, it's Johnlock. They are not exactly kissing in the first chapter, so you can tell it's more pre slash. I just thought it a good opening for this fic.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters.**

**Chapter one: Not so boring**

John is on the verge of panicking. He ignores the dull pain in his shoulder and proceeds to drag the unconscious form of his flat mate out of the water. He can hear the sounds of sirens in the distance, but he is not calmed by it.

Once they're both safely on the bank of the river, he begins to hastily work on the buttons of Sherlock's coat and soon discards him of the damp and heavy piece of clothing. The instincts of an army doctor kick in John and he is thankful for whatever experience he has, so he'll be able to be productive in critical situations. And what is this, if not a very critical situation?

He presses his ear against the detective's chest and the air is knocked out of his own lungs as he realizes that Sherlock is not breathing. With a new found determination John tilts his friend's head back slightly, brushing away the wet locks from his face and puts some pressure on his jaw to pull it forward. The good doctor doesn't think twice as he pinches the man's nostrils closed with his experienced fingers and places his mouth tightly over Sherlock's mouth. He blows two quick, shaky breaths and releases the nostrils expectantly, waiting for the chest to rise. When it doesn't happen, he growls angrily and leans in to repeat the procedure.

"Come on.." he mumbles weakly, desperately, hoping that this time the results will be different. And John almost sobs in relief as the detective's eyes shot open and the same instant he is caught into a fit of loud and throaty coughing.

"Breathing...You're breathing..." John chokes out trying to be assuring, but he says it more to himself than to the other man.

He rubs soothing circles on Sherlock's back, as the detective is still wheezing uncontrollably and spluttering water.

"Jh'n.." the detective manages to pronounce groggily in between his uneven inhales and exhales.

"Breathing..." John repeats in a murmur, an unreadable expression on his face, "Not so freaking boring now, is it?"  
Sherlock only nods mutely, and lets to be shifted closer to his blogger. He doesn't comment when John doesn't remove his hand from his back.

**AN: Did you like it? Shall I continue? Let me know.**


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Here comes another chapter, hope you're enjoying these, as much as I enjoy writing these. With the first few chapters I'm going to stick with pre-slash, but no worries we'll get there soon.:)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters.**

**Chapter two: Brilliant**

"I'm asking you for the last time." Sherlock pronounces through gritted teeth, trying to calm his nerves.  
"Did you or did you not on November second, this same year spy on Jim Hopkins(your work partner) and Anne Maurice(your landlady)? Did you or did you not watch them through the keyhole of her flat door? And discovering the affair between the two mentioned, it resulted in you striking Mrs. Anne in the head five times with a dull object. Which we later found out was a frying pan. What an irony...Just answer shortly, did you or did you not?"

The suspect swallows nervously, feeling gummed to the chair under that consulting detective's glare.  
"Uh?" he manages to say after a while.

John, taking the persistent twitching in his flat mate's left eye as a sign that he should lead the detective away, before some unrepairable damage was done, moves to his friend's side.

"I'm going to kill him..." Sherlock comes to the conclusion, with a frighteningly straight face and without a trace of doubt.

"Of course you are." John agrees gently, taking the detective by the arms and hoping that he would just step away from the _poor_ criminal.

"You don't understand!" his flat mate almost yells and turns his gaze towards Lestrade. "He is acting! Don't you see?"

"Sherlock, he is deaf!" comes the measured reply from the detective inspector. "How can you be so sure that he is faking it-"

"How can you be sure that he isn't!?" Sherlock challenges back, "Are you his doctor?"

Lestrade opens his mouth to speak or yell, the good doctor can't tell, but John, being as it seems the only sensual man in the room...except for the criminal maybe, who just keeps looking around in confusion, almost forcefully drags his flat mate out of the room.

Once out, Sherlock growls in frustration and starts pacing along the corridor in an unthinkable pace.

"Now. Let's just calm down." John says patiently not really daring to approach his friend yet. When the detective looks up at him with a hopeful look, the good doctor shakes his head firmly.

"No, you can't have a cigarette and don't pout on me, you know it doesn't work." he says and Sherlock only huffs in an annoyed manner.

"Right." John continues eventually. "Why do you think that he is not deaf?"

"He _is_ deaf, John. Do keep up." Sherlock answers distractedly, still walking around restlessly. "But he can read lips. Did you not see the way he was grimacing with his thumbs? It was so obvious that I thought even Anderson had an idea or few."

John rubs his temples tiredly and gives a short nod, processing the information.

"Fine. Let's suppose he understood everything you said." the doctor starts reasoning, "But how can you be sure that he uses sign language to communicate?"

"What _sign language_?" Sherlock snorts indignantly, coming to a halt in front of his colleague.

"I merely thought that all deaf inhabitants could visually convert external orifice configurations..." he trails off and starts looking at John in awe, while the latter feels rather uneasy under Sherlock's insistent gaze.

"Sign language..." the detective repeats, stepping closer to the doctor, who shifts back, not knowing what to expect from this madman.

"John, once again you have proved to be an unreplacable conductor of light without even realizing it." Sherlock says with a broad and excited grin on his face and takes the good doctor by his shoulders. "That was _brilliant_, my friend!" With those words he leans in and plants a loud and phony kiss on John's forehead. The good doctor flushes a nice shade of scarlet and gapes in surprise as Sherlock spins around and stomps off back into the room.

He didn't even have time to feel insulted when Sherlock practically said: _"Everyone's an idiot, but you're my favorite one."_ He was a _bit_ distracted by the detective's actions.

**AN: So you know how the eleventh doctor could kinda get all excited and kiss Rory or whoever that was beside him. Imagine Sherlock getting all excited about a case and kissing John. xD and this fic happened. **

**I know, this case didn't really make sense, I just thought that Sherlock could get so focused on proving one thing, that he would've ignored other facts and John, being the wonderful hedgehog he is, would say something remarkably useful. **

**And for the record, a massive thank you for your good responses, they motivate me for the coming chapters. Reviews are very much appreciated and rewarded with virtual strawberry muffins. ;3**


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: I have planned to update earlier, but I also wanted to finish reading my book('War and Peace' people!). Sorry for the delay, here I'm giving you a comparably long chapter to make up. Thank you for reading, following and reviewing this story. **

**Disclaimer: *gasps dramatically* I still don't own anything. *sighs***

**Chapter three: Nightmares**

There is surprisingly no satisfaction in having solved this case of 'Baskerville'. In fact, it has left the detective even more confused and uncertain about things. He has stopped understanding the motives and we all know what happens when Sherlock's mind is troubled with something. Those hallucinations, imagination factors and hints...all the sorts of information he hates: uneven, unreliable and unuseful. And the little fall out with his friend didn't help in any way.

As if on cue the doctor groans lightly in his sleep and turns over on the bed. Under the low light of his desk lamp, Sherlock can see John's furrowed brows and the continual clenching and unclenching of his fists. Well at least he's able to get some sleep after all that has happened...Of course he is, he's Captain John Watson, he's got nerves of steel and patience that doesn't seem to be wearing thin any time soon. While Sherlock here, is a coward. Yes, he's a coward. He's not as brave as his blogger, he prefers to leave the lights on and not sleep than go and face his night terrors.

John exhales sharply, snapping the detective out of his dark thoughts. And about nightmares...it seems like his flat mate is having one about right now. If anything, Sherlock is not little surprised by it, since he's been keeping an eye on John's sleeping schedule and the last time the doctor dreamt was four months ago if not longer.

John is mumbling some incoherent words and sentences, that Sherlock can't make out and he isn't trying either. He has already moved to his friend's side and is wondering what he can possibly do to ease the condition John is in. There's a reason he calls himself a sociopath... he really has got an antisocial personality disorder. During the last two years, in most situations he has learnt to do what John would. But what to do now, when his friend is the one who needs to be comforted?

Sherlock is in puzzlement and doesn't know how to act, when the good doctor starts thrashing and kicking around as if he's being attacked. He makes up his mind and carefully tries to shake John's shoulder , but it only results in the other's movements getting more violent.  
_'He was a doctor.'_ he reminds himself confidently and tries to hold his flat mate down by his wrists. And oh how mistaken he is, as a fist unexpectedly connects with his face. It is a ridiculously well measured blow and although Sherlock reacts quickly, backing away from the impact, it doesn't exactly miss the side of his face.  
_'He had bad days.'_ comes the mocking but as life keeps proving, very true, reply in his head.

"No! Don't touch them!" John exclaims suddenly in utter horror. "Don't you dare touch them!"

The detective is on the verge of panicking as he shakes his friend harder in an attempt to rouse him from his bad dream.

"John! John, wake up!" he speaks in a hard and commanding voice and sighs in relief as the doctor's eyes flutter open.

"Sherlock?" asks John partly sleepy and looks at his flat mate in confusion.

"You were having a nightmare." Sherlock explains, not quite moving from the bedside.  
The army doctor nods absentmindedly, trying to catch his breath. Then John's eyes widen as they lie on the not so modest red mark on his flat mate's face.  
"D-did...did I h-hi-" he splutters, a feeling of dread coming over him at only the idea of the possibility. He wants to finish his question, but Sherlock doesn't let him.  
"It's nothing. Just a scratch. You had no idea I was even here. It was the natural reaction of a body to..." he trails off as John shifts closer.

The good doctor cups his chin gently and begins to inspect the unwanton damage he has done to his friend. At the moment Sherlock pretty much resembles a statue. He has gone completely rigid under John's experienced fingers and he's holding his breath in anticipation.

"Fortunately, it's nothing serious." John says after a while, not removing his fingers from Sherlock's jaw. "It shouldn't bruise, but you better put something on it."

Sherlock however has hardly heard him. He's completely overwhelmed by the new sensation of his flat mate's warm and lingering touches and his mind keeps making and saving datas with the speed of the light. Should he be bothered that he is this intrigued by his friend's absolutely platonic and professional ministrations?

"Sherlock?" asks John uncertainly, as the detective keeps staring at him with a strange look on his face.  
"I'm sorry." Sherlock mumbles, but says it loud and clear enough for the doctor to hear.

"_You_'re sorry?" John questions, snorting quietly and his fingers subconsciously start to move on Sherlock's cheek again, rubbing in small circles.  
"May I ask for what?"

"For trapping you in the lab." the detective answers shakily, resisting the urge to close his eyes at the relaxing motion of the very distracting hand on the side of his face. "That's why you were having a nightmare in the first place."

John opens his mouth to say something against it but then shakes his head.  
"It's nothing." he repeats the detective's words from earlier and holds back a yawn.

Sherlock swallows visibly as the gentle fingers are now stroking at his smooth cheekbone and occasionally adding a caress over the soft space behind his ear with a thumb. Now he only has the deducing powers to notice the doctor's dilated pupils and he's sure that his own must look equally large. He hesitantly brings up his hand and puts it over John's. When the doctor doesn't do anything in protest, Sherlock turns his head and brushes his lips against his friend's palm in a lightest of kisses.  
It is a very affectionate gesture and in a way, even grateful, for a sociopath as himself. Highly functioning or not.  
John jerks his hand away almost the same instant, as if only realizing what is going on. He clears his throat, looking anywhere but at Sherlock and he misses the hurt expression on the detective's face.

"You...mm, should go and get some sleep." John says eventually, trying to sound neutral. "We're leaving early in the morning, right?"

"Right." Sherlock hurries to reply and breaks away from the bedside. "Good night."

And if the flickering lamp is anything to go by, the consulting detective doesn't really sleep that night.

**AN: Sequel anyone?**

**FUN FACT: ****So you probably know that Lev Tolstoy is the author of 'War and Peace' and he's a Russian in native. And 'War and Peace' translated from the Russian 'Voyna I Mir', is actually interpreted wrongly! 'Mir' has got two meanings in Russian language: 1. Peace, 2. World. **

**Recently I've read in some Russian site that Tolstoy has actually written an article specifically explaining how many litterateurs and readers has got the meaning of the title and/or the book wrong. With his creation, Tolstoy has meant to show how the world reacted to the war and really if you read or have read the book, you'll wonder briefly: "What has it got to do with peace?"**

**Just thought I'd share this little piece of information with you and I highly recommend you read the book. It's a bit 'strong' and messed up in some places, but totally worth it. **

**P.S.: I'm not a Russian. I just so happen to know four languages. **


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Wanted to update my hobbit story but then thought: "Heck, doesn't Johnlock just make the world a better place?" and added another chapter for this story.**

**I don't have much else to say…just that there is going to be a kiss and a bit of(a lot of) angst. Enjoy…if you dare.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters.**

**Chapter four: The row**

"What the deuce do you mean by telling Sarah that I'm a fool?" John Watson demanded, storming through the door dramatically. The detective couldn't hide his grin at the sight of the former soldier and he finally set up straightly, as it was meant to sit on a sofa.  
"Heavens, I'm so sorry." He explained with a pouty face. "Was that a secret?"

The good doctor pursed his lips into a tight line, keeping himself from saying things he would regret about later. Besides, Mrs. Hudson was still there and looking very much conflicted by their behavior.

"Sherlock...What is going on?" John said finally, massaging his temples tiredly.

"There is always something going on, John. Could you perhaps be a bit more accurate?" the detective asked innocently, raising an elegant brow at his blogger.

"You know bloody well what I'm talking about!" John snapped making Sherlock look away uneasily. Dr. Watson swearing was not a very pleasant start of a conversation.

Poor Mrs. Hudson, sensing that an argument was inevitable, was torn between following her self-preservation instincts and back away or stay and try to interfere. After a few seconds of the growing tension, though, she wisely chose to stick with the first one and hastily made her escape.

John walked over to his arm chair and flopped onto it with a sigh, but he never averted his gaze from his flat mate.

"Well?" Sherlock asked when he made sure that the doctor was not going to talk.

"Well!?" John deadpanned, raising an eyebrow at the man. "_You_ ask me that?"  
Sherlock frowned and glared at him impatiently, motioning to get on with it.

"Sherlock..." the doctor took a calming breath and started a bit more softly now. "I know that you don't like her. And I am not asking you to..."  
The detective nodded curtly wanting the other to know that he was listening.  
"You keep making all those offensive remarks, mess with her head for some reason," John paused briefly and licked his lips uncertainly. "When she only tries to be decent to you..."

Sherlock snorted humorlessly but snapped his mouth shut, as the doctor gave him a pointed look.

"That's the whole problem with you!" said John irritably, "You just keep it in that head of yours and don't ever bother saying anything!"

He closed his eyes, keeping his temper in line and leaned forward. "Please, Sherlock." he spoke patiently, making the detective look up at him in confusion. "Can you for once tell me what you really are thinking? Tell me what is bothering you...I'll understand, I promise. Well, at least I promise to try."

John waited for an answer and was not surprised when he received none. However he was taken aback when the detective broke away from the sofa and moved to stand right in front of him. Sherlock didn't say anything but he was gazing down at him with so much tenderness that John felt his breath knock from his lungs. He had never seen his flat mate display such an open and sincere emotion, before. And the rareness of it itself made the gesture very intimate, despite of not knowing what it meant.  
Before the good doctor had the chance to figure out what had just happened, Sherlock was clearing his throat and straightening his composure.

"I apologize for my actions." He said in his usual neutral tone, looking anywhere, but at John. "I shall not bother you again."  
And with that he turned around and started making his way to the kitchen. John tried and failed not to gape at the retrieving back of his flat mate. He soon recovered and shaking himself from his shocked stance, leaped to his feet.

"That is all!?" he growled angrily, making the detective stop in his tracks. "That's all you're gonna say!? You can go around telling people what they want to hear, but guess what, it isn't going to work with me!"

"And what else, pray tell, do you want me to say?!" Sherlock almost shouted, swirling around to face the now startled doctor. "I meant what I said. I shall never so much as utter a word to your _precious_ Sarah. That should've satisfied you, counting that that is the reason you are even here."

John stood stunned at the detective's words. That was so much puzzlement he could take in one day. Now his flat mate's words just didn't make sense.

"Don't you _see_?" Sherlock finished weakly and once again John Watson was caught off guard by the human expression showing on the detective's face. Although this time, the look he was being given was full of pain and insecurity.

"Sherlock..." he started softly and stepped closer to his flat mate. The detective firmly kept his eyes on the floor, but the slight tightness of his jaw indicated that he had heard the doctor.

A warm, calloused hand cupped his cheek, drawing his head upwards gently and his gaze met John's. The good doctor looked into his flat mate's stormy blue eyes, expectantly. Hoping that the other would say something...just a small, non-sensual _something_ that would stop this inner battle that was going on inside of them both. Sherlock gasped quietly and closed his eyes in concentration not wanting to be distracted by the insistent hand on his face. He couldn't risk making the same mistake. Not now. Not ever again. John obviously had other plans though.

The delicate fingers that were handling his cheek, now moved over to his mouth and caressed lightly over it. Sherlock inhaled shakily, throwing one hand behind him and grasping the side of the kitchen table, attempting to steady himself. The good doctor once again paid no mind to Sherlock's wordless whimpers as he seemed too mesmerized by his flat mate's face features. There was one thing that he didn't like though...As a result to the detective's foul mood and continual frowning the corners of his cupid bow mouth were drawn downwards, making his beautiful lips look sore and unpleasant.

John stroked at his upper lip with an index finger, wanting the angry lines to go away. When it didn't help, he made up his mind and leaning forward, brushed his own lips lightly over Sherlock's applying the barest warm pressure. The detective shuddered and made a surprised noise at the back of his throat, not quite expecting the events to take a turn in this direction. The sound made John snap out of his dazed stance and pull back quickly.

"Oh God...What have I _done_? " the doctor whispered, his voice filled with panic and disbelief. "I'm sorry...so sorry...I didn't mean to..."  
Sherlock was quicker to recover from the after- shock of their kiss and tried to approach his flat mate that was on the verge of hysterics.

"John, stop..." he said calmly and put a hand on the doctor's shoulder to cease the other's frantic movements. "It's _alright_."  
And what was supposed to sound soothing and relaxing made John stare at him with wide eyes as if he had just grown a second head. The expression on his blogger's face soon turned into one of sorrow and disgust, at himself or at the detective, Sherlock couldn't tell.

"I'm sorry..." John repeated and shook the younger man's hand away, stepping a safe distance back.

With those words the good doctor strode out of their flat, closing the door after him with a dull snap.

**AN: *sings* *And it's so easy when you're evil, this is the life you see, the devil tips his hat to me, I do it all because I'm evil and I do it all for free, your tears are all the pay I'll ever need.* *bows her head slightly* By the way isn't this the song Moffat takes shower to?**

**Before you kill me, there is going to be a sequel and is going to be a happy solution…or not? Reviews are very much appreciated.**


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: Here it is my dears. The happy ending to the last chapter and the expected get-together kiss. I wanted to describe this particular kiss well, since it's their first actual one. But since it's also my first time, writing an actual kiss, I'll have to ask you to tell me what you thought of it, 'cause I'm not entirely satisfied with it. Also this chapter is rather long in the contrast with the others. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I think I wouldn't be wasting my life writing a fic if I owned the show. **

**Chapter five: Believe You Me**

John drummed his fingers on the table, occasionally looking up and making sure to nod to whatever Sarah was saying. He wanted to seem unbothered and interested, but his mind was wandering elsewhere. The slight trembling of his arms was giving him away and if his girlfriend had noticed it, she chose not to comment on it.

The happened was still a blur of pictures and noises in his head and a part of him hoped that it was just a dream. How could he have done something like that for real? To Sarah...To Sherlock. What was he thinking? Well, here's the problem, he wasn't thinking that is. How could _he_, the one who had always confronted Sherlock about personal space, the one whom most of their friends had grown to call 'not his date', Captain John Watson- straight as a dart, pull out something like that? He had not only betrayed Sarah, but also completely and unrepairably destroyed his friendship with the detective.

What could he possibly do now to fix this? Should he apologize? Or should he pretend like none of it had ever happened? He scratched his ear thoughtfully at the last one. It was a possibility, after all we're talking about Sherlock. The man was most likely to delete the events of that day from his hard drive and then the problem would be solved. And maybe there would be a chance to get back to their previous life.

"John are you listening?" asked Sarah, a slightly annoyed edge in her voice.

"Yes." the good doctor nodded quickly, taking his glass of wine into his hand. "Yes, of course I'm listening."

He breathed a sigh of relief as Sarah continued talking instead of asking him to repeat the last said.  
However he was not able to follow the conversation for more than five seconds.

So Sherlock could forget about their small encounter and proceed living as if nothing out of ordinary had happened. But could John do the same? Could he get the image of them kissing out of his head and continue being that mad man's ever loyal and supportive side kick? To bury away the memory of his flat mate's soft lips pressed against his own, to keep himself from wondering how those unruly curls would feel under his touch, how those muscular arms-

John shook himself from those thoughts and dried down all of the red liquid from his glass. Since when did he think like that about his best friend? But surprisingly he wasn't all that uncomfortable or taken aback by his new and unexpected musings. And only the fact that he wasn't, made him feel more than uncomfortable with himself. This whole thing should be settled and as soon as possible or else he was risking losing his sanity.

For a brief moment the mental sight of his old and dull flat flashed before his eyes. Should he move out? It's not as if the detective depended much on him. He was perfectly capable of solving the cases on his own, without a useless army soldier getting on his way all the time. And Mrs. Hudson, their caring landlady would definitely look after Sherlock, so he didn't starve himself to death.

A gasp escaped John's mouth, as the idea of a life without Sherlock finally dawned on him. And he realized with some difficulty that unlike the detective, he depended on Sherlock. He couldn't imagine coming home and not seeing the younger man sprawled on their sofa, obviously not having moved at all the whole day. He couldn't picture opening the fridge and finding actual food instead of severed body parts and experiments. He couldn't see another reason for continuing writing in that blog of his. He just _couldn't_ without the detective. He looked at the woman sited in front of him and reminded himself that platonic or not, Sherlock Holmes was the most important person in his life and sure as hell he was going to make it better.

"Sarah, I think we need to.." he began gently, but he was soon interrupted by her.

"We need to talk." Sarah finished for him, an understanding expression on her face.

The curly haired man took a calming breath, trying to ignore the insignificant ringing in his ear. He blinked testily at the skull, grinning up at him toothily, and spoke in a very strained manner.

"What is wrong with you today?" he said, the corner of his mouth twitching unwantonly.  
Silence. He was met with rude silence.  
He brought it closer to his face and his eyes started running over the round form of the object: observing, inspecting, searching. Perhaps it was broken.

"How long are you intending to stay quiet?" he asked in frustration. But nothing. Once again he got no response from the bony head.

Heaving a sigh, he put the offensive item away. He couldn't understand the reason it failed to work now, after so many years of serving to him truthfully and with no complaints either. Now out of all times, when he desperately needed an ear. And what was he left with now? He had the silence of the room and the unretainable chaos of his thoughts. Nothing else. He'd might as well get used to it...

There was a crack from downstairs, making the man's head snap towards the door expectantly. Light footsteps were heard and he sighed, returning to his honorable and perfectly understandable sulk. It wasn't _him_. The footsteps made it to the doorway and he could tell that the person was hesitating entering. After a few seconds though, the door to their living room opened to reveal the sympathetic face of their landlady.

"Sherlock, dear...I'm making myself a cuppa, do you want one?" Mrs. Hudson asked sweetly, but still not daring to make her appearance fully into the room. She knew him too well and now seemed like the worstest of all times to try and talk to the sociopath.

He made a short negative movement with his head, not looking in her direction and said.  
"No. Thank you Mrs. Hudson."

The old woman smiled sadly and moved to go out, only to make up her mind and step closer to the armchair, the man was sitting on.

"I think I've still got some biscuits left. The ones you like...Want me to bring over a few?" she asked hopefully.

He didn't understand where this sudden urge to feed and fuss over him was coming from, but he was too tired and simply didn't have the heart to be rude to the lady that was not their housekeeper. He nodded eventually and opened his mouth to express his gratitude when the door to their living room opened to reveal one, uneasy looking Dr. Watson.

"Good evening Mrs. H." John greeted her as usually, but his gaze was focused on the man that directly refused to acknowledge his presence.

Their landlady merely smiled at her boys who had obviously got into a fight earlier. She might not be young anymore but she knew when she was no longer needed. With a curt hello and a promise to pop by later with some biscuits, Mrs. Hudson returned to her own floor.

"Sherlock, can we...?" not having the opportunity to finish the sentence, John jumped a little on his place as the detective suddenly sprung to his feet and marched towards him with a dangerous look on his face.

"Can we _what_, John? Talk?" Sherlock asked, making matching gestures with his hands. "Of course. Let's talk. Or more correctly let's hear what _you_ have to say!"

"Sherlock, that's..." the good doctor tried to reason with the hyperactive genius. At the moment he was a tiny bit frightened of the other man and all the frantic movements he was making.

"_That was a mistake._ Isn't it what you were going to say?" the detective continued his accusations, not paying attention to John's attempts at a civil conversation.

"I wasn't-"

"You weren't _what_ exactly, John?" Sherlock snapped. "Thinking about leaving 221B? Going back to your flat or maybe even moving in with _Sarah_..."

"Sherlock!" The doctor growled in annoyance, grabbing the detective by his arms and trying to make him see point.

"_What!?_" The younger man shouted. And then his eyes widened in realization as he took in John's features. The desperate, longing look, the loud thumping of his heart...He hastily turned his hand so that he could count the other's pulse and he couldn't help but gawk at the doctor.

"Oh..." Sherlock managed to say at last, anger seemingly drained out of him.

"Yes _'oh'_, you crazy git!" John mocked fondly, stepping closer to his flat mate. "By the way...it wasn't."

"What?" The detective asked dumbly blinking at him in confusion.

"A mistake." John clarified in a murmur, arching up and pressing their foreheads together. "It wasn't a mistake."

He watched as Sherlock's face brightened significantly and he lowered his head slightly so that their noses nuzzled together. John closed his eyes, savoring the warmness of the other's breath on him and the familiar scent of his aftershave.

"Are you certain?" Sherlock questioned, just to make sure. "Do you really want this?"

"Yes. I am quite sure." the doctor answered firmly and reaching a hand, ran his fingers through the detective's dark curls. John chuckled as his ministrations made the younger man purr and sigh contently.

"May I..." the doctor swallowed a lump and spoke. "May I kiss you again?"

Sherlock, not quite trusting his voice, could only nod mutely. But it was absolutely enough for John as he moved up the last half inch to capture the detective's lips.

Sherlock moaned softly and wound his arms tightly around his blogger, with his hands spreading possessively across the span of his back to move John even closer. The doctor instinctively reached up so that he could caress the side of Sherlock's face and slowly he angled his head to deepen the kiss, swiping his tongue invitingly over his flat mate's closed lips. With a grunt of pleasure, the detective parted his mouth in response, enjoying this intimate closeness.

Their lips meshed and locked together lovingly with wet tongues dancing, sending a delicious thrill of sparks through their nerves. The good doctor felt like he was walking on air and he decided that he would happily spend an eternity within Sherlock's hold.

Soon, which John believed was an entirely way too short amount of time, Sherlock pulled away, leaving the two panting for breath.

He opened his eyes to stare dazedly at the detective, who looked completely wrecked. His pupils were blown and his hair was a mess, but his grip on the doctor never ceased.

"John..." he said breathlessly a broad grin playing on his lips while John felt himself go weak at the knees under his friend's sincere and searing gaze.

"Uhh...mm...t-tea?" John sputtered lamely when he was sure that the detective wasn't going to say anything else. Sherlock raised a brow at him in what he recognized was the 'are you an idiot?' way.

"Absolutely no." the detective snorted and John let himself be pulled into a second, a third and many more kisses.

**AN: Did you like it? No? Let me know.**


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: This is just a silly short one shot where Mycroft finds out that Sherlock and John are together. From the first sight their romantic gestures seem so usual and natural that the elder Holmes brother doesn't even realize anything odd.**

**Disclaimer: *sobs and sings* I've got nothiiiing, noothiiing...NOOTHIIING!**

**Chapter six: Can you feel the love in the air?**

"Sherlock!" came John's deeply annoyed voice from the kitchen. "Have I not told you to pay attention to where you are putting your experiments!? Especially when they are bloody and dead! Why couldn't you have placed it somewhere that was not near my ja-oh hello, Mycroft."

The elegant man who was sited on their sofa with one leg over the other, smiled pleasantly at him and greeted with a polite nod.

"That I did, John." Sherlock told him casually. "I paid as little attention to it as possible."

"Very funny." John said sarcastically, while shrugging on his coat and grabbing the keys.

"No. It's just you have a bad sense of humor." the detective replied and failed to cover his amused grin.

"Right. Whatever you say." his flat mate huffed, most likely giving up on trying to force some sense into Sherlock and walked to the coach, the younger man was anything but sitting on.

"I've got a shift at the clinic...and an appointment later. Hopefully I'll be home around seven." said John in a more gentle voice, looking down at the detective. "Try not to completely destroy this place 'till I return. Alright?"

"Alright." The detective actually bothered to answer, much to Mycroft's surprise. And the good doctor, obviously glad with the response, smiled a small tight smile and leaning in, kissed Sherlock on the cheek.

"John, wait!" the younger man exclaimed when John was about to move away and held him down by the lapels of his coat. The good doctor gave him a quizzical look, but stayed where he was.

"I'll buy you your jam." Sherlock whispered slyly and pressed a kiss on the corner of his mouth. "Would that satisfy you?"

"Why, yes." John chuckled lightly and brushed his lips suggestively over the detective's. "Very much so."

Mycroft Holmes couldn't help but roll his eyes at the domestic atmosphere in the flat. Gracefully and with very measured movements, he took the offered cup of tea into his hands and took a sip, only to almost choke on it. _What what atmosphere!?_ The eldest Holmes brother stared owlishly at the snogging couple, not quite knowing if he was surprised by this discovery or surprised at not being surprised by the fact that the two were together. And to his horror the couple didn't seem to be planning on pulling away any time soon.

A sheepish cough, which Sherlock suspected came from his brother, interrupted them. The detective could only glare at the man who was the British government, while sweet John bid his goodbyes awkwardly and tried to hide his embarrassment.

"So, brother." Mycroft started with his characteristic smirk, once the good doctor had left. "Is there something I should possibly know about?"

"Oddly enough..." Sherlock made a thoughtful look, then said. "No."

**AN: Have I already said that this was silly? Maybe I should try on other people's reactions also. What do ya say? **


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: Well it was a hell lot of fun writing this chapter. Hope you like it.**

**Chapter seven: Talks and Telephones**

John rolled his eyes in annoyance and yet again tried to free himself from the detective's arms and limbs wrapped around him.

"Sherlock, get off." he demanded, but the other only tightened his grip on the doctor.

"No." Sherlock stated boldly and refused to let his boyfriend go from their tangled embrace on the sofa.

It had been an incredibly busy week, with him working on a rather complex case and with John being constantly at the clinic. This evening was the first time that they could actually spend some time together, which Sherlock was immensely grateful for. Even if that meant lying sprawled on the couch and watching crap TV.

"Don't be a child and move over." the doctor said irritably, hoping that whoever was calling would have enough patience so as to wait for a minute more and not disconnect.

"Jooohn..."Sherlock moaned, looking at the doctor with a pout. "don't gooo."  
The skinny man was making quite a sight and John felt his heart clench with a warm emotion and he couldn't help but smile.

"I won't be long, love." he assured, brushing Sherlock's fridge back with his fingers. "I'll answer the phone and come straight back." 

"Straight back?" the detective asked, with a skeptical look on his face making the doctor chuckle. 

"Straight back." he promised, planting a soft kiss on the top of Sherlock's head and made his way to the telephone at last.

"Hello...?Oh, Harry. How are you?" Sherlock watched John's facial expressions change from surprised to pleasant, from bothered to neutral. The relationship between the siblings was still quite strained, though both of them were trying their best to support a decent relationship. The detective himself didn't care much about Harriet Watson. He could not look past the fact that the woman had made his John go through a lot of humiliating and disgusting incidents and talks and never went into a compromise, even though it was mostly her fault. Not to mention that she didn't entirely like him.

"Yes, he's here too..."the doctor said into the receiver and Sherlock raised an eyebrow, not understanding why the other's sister would want to ask anything about him. Everything became clear when John turned to look at him and spoke. "Harry says 'hi.'" 

Now it was Sherlock's turn to roll his eyes. It was a two theory case, really. Miss Watson had either involved herself into an affair, that John would naturally not approve of or she was drunk. But judging by John's comparably relaxed posture...the second possibility was out. 

"I'm delighted." Sherlock spat out and looked up at the doctor expectantly. "Will you come now?" 

John shook his head disappointedly and returned back to his conversation. 

"He greets back." he told his sister in the previous cheery voice. "Thinks you should come over more often."  
Sherlock let out an irritated growl and threw one of the nearby cushions at his doctor, which the latter easily dodged from.  
"This Friday?... " John merely laughed at the detective's reaction and continued talking as another pillow soon came flying at him. "Perfect!" 

Sherlock huffed particularly loudly to let the other know just how much he disliked the idea and lay with his back facing the doctor.

"No, I have not forgotten. " John said, glancing at the sulking man on the sofa. "Just let me find where I have written Bill's new address..." 

The former soldier took his time exploring their untidy desk, while balancing the phone between his cheek and shoulder. He cursed under his breath, as a result of his uncomfortable position, a few books and papers had fallen down.

"Uh...no. It's nothing. Sherlock, would you...?"John didn't even finish his sentence as the detective was already on his knees and cleaning up the mess he'd made, all the while muttering something about 'idiots' and 'worthless pieces of technology'.

"Thanks." John told him sincerely and brought the phone back to his ear. "Did you go to the dentist the other day?" 

After the detective had neatly collected the fallen objects, suddenly another thing caught his attention. The corners of his mouth twitched up as he realized that being on an eye level with John's middle brought out many possible... possibilities. He shifted closer to the distracted doctor and inhaled deeply, before nudging the other's belly with his nose. 

"Sherlock, what are you..." John frowned, looking down, but his face softened instantly as he saw his partner's rather adorable position on the floor. He thought that at the moment the man trully resembled an oversized kitten, that would go around making noises and ruining things just to get his attention.

The good doctor lowered his unoccupied hand so that he could run it through Sherlock's unruly curls.

"And did he find out what you had?" John proceeded talking half heartily, wanting to enjoy the sounds that were coming from the younger man's mouth because of his ministrations. 

Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes and placing his hands comfortably on the doctor's hips, buried his face into John's jumper. That was in fact one of his personal favorites. It was the soft oatmeal one and he instinctively started nuzzling the woolen clothing with his cheek. With his head pressed tightly to the doctor, he could feel John swallow hard and he grinned mischievously. It was more than offending that his flat mate was still engulfed in that pointless phone-talk. 

"R-really?" the good doctor managed to pronounce with some difficulty, as Sherlock's long fingers had found their way under his jumper and were now concentrated on rubbing circles just over his waistband.

John's breath hitched and his fingers curled into a fist in the detective's hair. Sherlock only smirked in response and lifted the jumper up above his navel and leaning in pressed a soft kiss on the doctor's stomach.

"What do you m-mean very…_Sherlock_!" After spluttering a few times, John roughly fixed his sweater back into its respectable condition and the detective pulled a face at him. 

"John." he whispered huskily, wrapping his arms around the doctor's waist. 

"Do not tempt me." His blogger told him firmly, while covering the receiver with a palm, so that Harry wouldn't hear them. "Go and do something else, 'till I'm finished."

"No, no. I'm fine." John said to his sister, clearing his throat." Of course, I'm listening. What do you mean, very nearly?"

Sherlock only groaned angrily and stomping back to the sofa, fell face flat on it. Since that day he officially hated telephones and long talks.

**AN: Guys how would you name a male husky dog? I suggested 'Sherlock' 'cause he's got blue eyes, but my friend just looked at me unimpressed and I was all 'okay, never mind me'. Since it's her dog, I can't have much say in it. [I can try offering her the name 'Khan' aka John Harrison. She hasn't watched Star Trek…yet.]**

**Anyway did you like this chapter? I was a bit rushed while writing this…didn't check over It second time. **


	8. Chapter 8

**AN: Honestly this chapter was supposed to be angsty! I don't know what went wrong...**

**Chapter eight: Taking care of you (is not an easy thing to do)**

"Lestrade, you know that deep inside I hold a lot of respect for you..."Sherlock gritted out through clenched teeth and made a wild gesture with his hand, startling the inspector. "But this is ridiculous! It's not even his job! What in the world has he forgotten in here?"

"I know and I'm not all too happy about it myself." Lestrade sighed and rubbed the back of his neck in clear discomfort. "But I have told you already that I had little choice. After you have punched him in the face..."

"I beg to differ, it was purely by accident." the detective stated and when Lestrade gave him a pointed look, he hurried to add. "Our dear Anderson here, just happened to trip over and so _happened_ to land on my fist. Not much luck, I'd say. Now get rid of this moron, will you?"

The DI only shook his head in disbelief not even bothering to ask how someone's face could so conveniently collide with another man's fist.

"As I was saying," he continued, completely ignoring the detective's ludicrous explanation. "He is here, because you have punched him and he has asked nicely."

"Oh. I can ask nicely enough." Sherlock nodded and cleared his throat in mock seriousness. "Will you be so kind as to get rid of this moron? _Please_?"

When Lestrade rolled his eyes and went to join the other officers, Sherlock groaned in a dramatic manner. What he wouldn't do for his loyal blogger to be here now... It would be very unreasonable, though. He had already noticed that John was feeling unwell the previous night, when the good doctor went to bed two hours earlier than usual. So this morning, Sherlock, feeling obliged to at least try to act like a normal person, decided not to wake John and more than that, prepared him a hot cup of tea with honey and left a note so the doctor knew where he had gone to.

Now, as he watched a certain member of the Metropolitan Police's Forensic Services say God knows what kind of rubbish, to the suspect,(who looked equally unimpressed and just about to commit a second homicide)he was starting to regret his actions. Sherlock feared he himself would be soon capable to murder someone... 

He took a deep, calming breath and with new found confidence stalked towards where the questioning was in process.

"You say you saw the man stabbed in the hayfield with a fork."asked Anderson, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "What kind of a fork?"

"Well did you ever see a tuning-fork or an oyster-fork in a hay field?" Sherlock taunted with a snort, answering instead of the criminal who almost laughed. Laughed!

Anderson narrowed his eyes dangerously at the tall man, who did not find the grimace threatening at all, and put his hands on his hips.

"What do you want?" he spat out with a snarl. "As you can clearly see, I have everything in control here!"

_The more accurate would be what do _you_ want._ Sherlock forced his lips into a tight smile.

"Oh nothing. I want absolutely nothing. Don't mind me, please go on." he held up his hands in defense and mouthed to the suspect. "You see, he's an expert."

"Good. You can leave now." Anderson pronounced in a deadly serious voice and was rewarded with an intense glare from the detective.

Sherlock was biting his tongue to prevent himself from saying very rude things and tried to control the rage that was gradually overwhelming him. From the corner of his eye, he saw Lestrade regard him with a knowing look and he couldn't help but wonder if there was _anyone_ in the world who would _not_ want to punch Anderson. 

The detective opened his mouth to speak, but his attention was quickly averted to the door that slowly opened to reveal a familiar face peak inside unsurely.

"John?" Sherlock breathed and quickly began making his way to the doctor, ignoring the indignant huff that came from Anderson. Even from the other side of the room, he could see how sickly the man looked: his face was flushed, the area around his nose was red as well and there were bags under his eyes. But besides being obviously tired and ill, the flu-suffering man seemed mostly relieved when he spotted the detective in the crowd of people.

"What are you doing here?" asked Sherlock with a frown and put his hands on either of John's shoulders, when he approached the latter at last. "You're supposed to be at home and resting."

"I'm fine." The doctor replied in a low and raspy voice. "Sherlock, what's happened? I woke up and there's not a trace of you! I asked Mrs. Hudson and she had no idea that you went out in the morning at all!"

"That's why you're here?" the detective asked, gently cutting off the man's worried rambling. "I thought you would have noticed that I left you a note. Isn't it what people do? Leave a note?"

"Ah right...the note. I found your _note_, alright!" John nodded and stuck his hand into his coat pocket, fishing out a rumbled piece of paper. "And I'll let you know just how much I appreciate being given a letter of this kind. I am forever in awe at the sheer elegance of this composition of yours...Not to say the rich vocabulary you chose to use..."

"John, could you rather explain what the problem is?" Sherlock interrupted with a sigh, not liking to be lectured. "Because in all honesty I don't know why you are so upset about my..."

"_'Totteridge Fields. Homicide. Fork.'_ What the hell, Sherlock!?" the detective flinched at John's comparably loud and harsh tone, as the doctor held the offensive sticky note right under his nose. "Of course, _anyone_ would have been immensely relieved to discover such a well written remark glued to their fridge, from their boyfriend, assuring that he's safe and well. But I prefer not to, thank you very much! Next time you can just try waking me up instead!"

The consulting detective lowered his head in shame, pretty much feeling like a child who was being scolded at by his mother. It was truly a wonder that the yarders had not yet caught sight of the two having, what their landlady would describe, 'a domestic'. He would bear no more of Anderson's comments that day.

"And I am yet to mention the disturbing yellow liquid that was contained in my favorite mug and ever so caringly put _right_ on my laptop!" John finished, rubbing his temples in exhaustion. "Care to explain what this is all about?"

Sherlock shrugged uneasily, not quite knowing what was expected of him to say. The raised brow of his flat mate hinted that a more reasonable answer was awaited and if any wrong word was said, it promised to be fatal for him.

"I thought that you would need some rest. I did not want you going out today, so that your condition didn't worsen." the detective told him eventually. "But seeing as you're here ...I dare say that my efforts have proved to be pointless."

The uncharacteristically weak answer that was lacking its usual amount of sarcasm and insults, made the good doctor think twice. He rewound the said, back to the word 'efforts' and suddenly everything made much more sense.

"You tried making tea." John stated, stepping closer to his boyfriend, a small teasing smile grazing his lips.

"Please, John if you want to mock me for my lack of experience at that certain area, then you should at least..." the detective trailed off, gaping in surprise as John took hold of his right hand and placed a gentle kiss on the back of it.

"You are mad. Absolutely and inevitably mad...you know that?" the good doctor murmured, while stroking Sherlock's knuckle with his thumb. "And I am even madder for adoring you so."

The curly haired man just looked at him with an awestruck expression on his face, as if John was the most precious thing in the entire universe. After staring at the doctor for a minute more, Sherlock unceremoniously pulled the other man to him and crashed his mouth to John's.

"Sh'lock! Wha...not now!" John squeaked in protest, trying to gain some space between them. "I got the flu, remember? You'll just get sick too."

"I don't care." the detective said truthfully, pressing a kiss on his doctor's cheek. "I'd be honored to be sick with you."

"Anderson's been getting to you again?" John asked with a chuckle, tilting his head as Sherlock moved his ministrations down to the side of his neck, kissing and nipping softly.

"A bit." came the breathless reply. "Let's go home. I'll ask Mrs. Hudson to prepare you tea this time."

"What are you saying?" John asked, bluntly, looking up at him with a funny look. "You're just ready to leave in the middle of a case? And not just any case...a murder! You really mustn't do it because of me…"

"Nonsense. I'm sure they'll solve it just fine without me." Sherlock waved off his doubts and continued in a particularly loud voice that easily got the attention of many people in the room. "How can they not, when one of Scotland Yard's best men has personally taken it upon himself to bring this long time gambler to justice. I find this act very commendable. And you?"

John, relying on his sensuality, instantly worked on dragging the younger man out and away from the quarters before something unrepairable was done to either of them. He threw an apologetic glance at Lestrade, who was shaking his head in distaste and caught a glimpse of Anderson, whose face looked way more scarlet than his own fevered one.

**AN: I had not really planned this chapter out, so somewhere in the middle, I realized that I had no proper ending! Hope you're not too disappointed.**

**The part with the note, where Sherlock asks if it isn't what people do...well you know that it's actually from the show: season 2, episode 3-The Reichenbach Fall. Ouch.**

**I did little research on Totteridge Fields actually...Sadly, I don't live in England, so no offense if I got anything wrong.**

**If you want more chapters with Anderson, just tell me. I really like hating him. lol**


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: As it turned out, it requires me a James Vincent McMorrow playlist to write angst...or anything at all. I'm having a bit of a writer's block and I'm not so pleased with this one.**

**Basically what happens in this chapter is that John discovers Sherlock's medical datas and finds out that in the past, the detective had attempted suicide. Oops.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters.**

**Chapter nine: Wordless**

_Sorry to bother you mate, but is your lunatic at home?-GL_

_Sherlock? No, he's at Bart's. Why are you asking?-JW_

_Just to make sure. The bastard has the nerve not to pick up the phone when I'm calling!-GL_

_What has he done now? Gosh...he did not set your desk on fire again, did he?-JW_

_Fortunately no. This time it is something less...distructive.-GL_

_Will it be too much trouble to ask you to look around for my warrant card? We have received new evidence and I bloody well need it!-GL_

_That's a relief. By now I'm pretty much used to anticipating the worst. Sure, I'll write if I come across it. -JW_

John gave his head a light shake and sniggered. This man would never change. And, come to think of it, he didn't want or expect him to, no matter how strange, at times even insane, the man could be, and inspite of the fact that he would probably continue stealing various compartment access documents from people.

John put away his phone, considering where to begin his 'search party'. Knowing the detective and his antics, he found no point in looking at the living room or the kitchen. Because if Sherlock had taken even the least amount of care in hiding it, than he should be a bit more creative in his ways as well.

He thought about checking his bathrobe(dressing gown, as the detective always bothered to correct him) and before he knew it, his feet had carried him down the carridor and into his boyfrined's room. _Former_ room, if being accurate.

During the past few months, as a result of their budding romance, Sherlock had grown to spend most of the nights in John's own bedroom, in very innocent intentions, of course. As much as the good doctor was concerned, Sherlock was not a sleeplover. Whether the latter couldn't or just wouldn't, he didn't know and didn't press the matter, as nearly once a day, the detective would make appearance at his doorstep and they would receive their share of much needed sleep, spooning and wrapped around each other. As long as it kept the insomnatic man content, John was quite happy too.

Although no official documents were found, the good doctor grinned stupidly at the sight of the piece of clothing, that the man was so fond of. John himself most certainly wouldn't wear anything of that kind. Ever. It was too posh, not to say, that it would just look odd on the body of the army veteran. But on Sherlock, John decided, it fitted just in the right ways. The robe hugged the detective's slim form perfectly, not shadowing, but rather outlining the gorgeous curves of his slender self.

The doctor cleared his throat, refocusing his attention on his task. He got distracted embarassingly easily, counting that Sherlock wasn't even in the flat. However, such things tended to happen often when one had such an infuriating and deadly attractive man for a partner.

With confident movements, John sunk to his knees onto the floor and taking hold of the corner of the carpet, lifted it. He then lowered it back in disappontment, not finiding anything there. He was actually a bit surprised at the lack of items under it.

Of course he would be; after the one time when a Mycroft Holmes had practically been conjured at 221B(undoubtedly by some dark force that only elder brothers or minor government workers posseesed) and with a polite 'good evening' had made his way to Sherlock's bedroom, uncovered the carpeting in the most natural way possible and discovered his ID. And later, retrieved in the same mysterious way as he had appeared, leaving a rather confused John Watson and an annoyed looking detective behind.

He let out a frustrated sigh and was about to get back to his feet, when an average sized box under the bed, caught his attention. Although his interest had been peaked, the doctor wondered if it would be deemed as intrusion or disrespect towards Sherlock.

He pinched the bridge of his nose thoughtfully, then with a shrug made a grab for the brown package. It's not as if the detective hadn't made himself familiar with his belongings or respected something called 'personal space'. And in addition to it, he was doing it for a friend...Sherlock wouldn't mind.

Convincing himself with those thoughts, John opened the box and took a look at the objects inside. As it soon turned out, the rectangular container, which John suspected played a significant role or was at least of minor importance to the detective, was storing only a bunch of old newspapers with several marked lines and a few cut out articles. A fond smile appeared on his face as he realized what these back issues meant. He could easily imagine a teenage Sherlock running around London, investigating cases, bothering the police and collecting columns.

Suddenly his gaze landed on a worn out batch file, sandwitched between which were no less old looking papers. Through the mess, he all but digged out the folder and blew on it so as to get rid of the light layer of dust. And John couldn't help but frown at the headline of the first document that he came by.

_**Neuropsychiatry Exam Card**_

Well, now why would it even be here? His eyes traced along the slightly blurred lines as he read on the question-answers of the mini-mental status exam and took notice of the total score in the bottom.

Standing up, John procceeded flipping through the pages, the furrows on his forehead deepening. He started pacing across the bedroom before coming to an abrupt halt, his eyes widening as he saw another sheet of paper with the following title.

_**The Suicide Risk Assessment Pocket Card**_

* * *

"John?" called out Sherlock, storming through their front door with a large smile playing on his lips. "You will be happy to know that yet again I proved to be triumphant in my musings. In all honesty, even a blind man could see the striking tension between the mistress and her asisstant. Pity I lost so much time, fighting for my point."

The detective hastily discarded himself of his coat and shoes, placing them in their respectable places and stepped further into the flat.

"Now you can finally compose that post for your blog." he continued talking, while unwrapping his scarf, "However, I'll have to ask you to change the title. I'm not sure that 'Where the lonely ones roam' is a presentable name for a ca-_oomph_!"

Sherlock staggered back in surprise, as all of a sudden his arms were full of John Watson. He looked down at the man in confusion, not quite knowing how to tackle this situation. The good doctor had a tight hold around his middle, with his head pressed against his chest and eyes closed. _Oh and was he about to cry too?_

"John, what a-"

"Shhh! Just...don't...please." the good doctor said shakily, snuggling closer into his boyfriend. Sherlock obeyed, not saying anything more and returned the embrace with one of his own.

John breathed in deeply, not getting enough of the detective's familiar and calming scent. The only idea, that many years ago, this man could've succeeded to hurt himself in some fatal way, was more than depressing for the poor doctor.

Soon Sherlock's misunderstanding turned into guilt, as he deduced the exact reason of what was troubling his flat mate.

He reached with one hand and put it on the back of John's neck, stroking and playing with the soft hair at the nape. _It's alright, John._

The good doctor tightened his grip on the younger man, desperately clingling to Sherlock, as if he would disappear any moment._ No, it's not! It's not alright!_

The detective pulled back slightly and putting a finger under his chin, guided John's face up to meet his gaze. His partner looked at him with sad watery eyes, the tightness in his throat not allowing to utter a single coherrent word.

Sherlock just stared, keeping this precious contact going._ I'm here._ Then he began caressing the side of John's face, which earned him a pleasure filled shudder from the doctor. _I'm not going anywhere._

They did nothing else for a rather long time. Just held each other in the comfort of the other's arms, exchanging gentle touches and small pecks. At the sight of his disorianted friend, the detective mentally kicked himself, not being able to suppress the fact that he was the cause of this man's emotional breakdown. He had never meant...could never mean to pain him so. He'd rather die then and there!

John, as if sensing his line of thoughts, gave his hand an assuring squeeze. _You're here._ And with a weak smile, pressed a kiss on the left side of his breast, right over his heart. _I'm not letting you go anywhere_.

Sherlock sniffed, wondering briefly what he had possibly done to gain someone like John and took the doctor's head into his hands. _I know._ He leaned in and kissed his John on the forehead. _I know_.

**AN: Hope I didn't tire you that much with this chapter. I realized that there wasn't much dialogue only after I have finished writing it. But I have mentioned a few events from their daily basis...to make up?Now a few interesting facts and info about this chapter.**

**Both the mental exam and the suicide risk assessment cards exist. I did little research on it though...'cause my medical knowledge is very limited. The first card is just the results of a basic test, which shows your current mental state. The second card is meant to qualify just how dangarous one can be for their person. It usually includes 1. Risk factors, 2. Protective factors, 3. Suicide Inquiry and 4. Risk level/Intervention. I'm not quite sure if the clinic/hospital allows the patient to keep those documents with them...but then again, why not?**

**So the morral of this story: Listen to Lestrade and don't commit suicide!**


	10. Chapter 10

**AN: Just wanna let you know that I won't be able to update frequently in the near future. I need to fix up my schedule for this year...with practices, school and etc. **

**Oh and have you seen the BBC original drama footage?! 'Just the two of us against the rest of the world.' I have been crying ever since.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**Chapter ten: The Ridiculous Two**

"Oh do hurry up John, will you? That is of course if you still want coffee.."

"Wait I-"

"No time for that."

"But there is an-"

"No time for that either. Come on"

John groaned loudly as the detective all but pushed him into the nearest coffee shop. He would very much appreciate something hot and calming, which preferably had a lot of coffeine in it, but he would also appreciate to not be thrust on and about by his flat mate.

Having to finally work on a case after three weeks of passiveness, was Christmas for Sherlock and a curse for the doctor. For most obvious reasons, one of which was that when the detective got excited about something, one should wisely stand aside and try not to approach the man for a safe amount of time.

John had naturally considered this idea, and not once I might say. He could easily ignore Sherlock, his work and his disturbing habits of always getting himself in some kind of trouble, any time. It was not John's job or priority to follow the detective around London, equally risking his life by his side and getting involved in some doings. But then again how could he not? To the doctor, Sherlock was like an eight year old, spoilt child with the most brilliant head ever and he constantly felt like he had to keep an eye on the man, so as to avoid some unpleasant incidents.

The shop was empty except for them and it wasn't surprising at all as nobody in the right mind would set foot in there at such an ungodly hour. John sighed tiredly and stretched his arms, while the detective kept himself entertained by typing something on his phone. A waitress soon appeared by the counter and referred to them with a professionally polite smile.

"Would you like to order something?"

"Yes, please." John answered quickly, before the detective could come up with anything mean to say. "Espresso with cold milk and cream."

"Coming right up." the lady smiled charmingly at him and with a nod and a wink disappeared out of their view. John did not think much of it, taking the gesture as something usual for the shop assistant and propped an elbow on the board so as to make the waiting more comfortable.

"Thirty eight, not married, has got a relative connection with the man running this foundation." said Sherlock indifferently, not averting his attention from the screen of his black berry. "Also she's physically attractive...for her age."

"Suppose so." John shrugged, being pretty much used to the man deducing almost everyone they'd meet on the way.

"You _suppose so_, eh?" The consulting detective challenged, looking up from his phone at last, "And she finds you quite appealing if I'm not mistaken, which I'm not."

"Well what do you want me to hit on her or something?"

"Why not?"

"Because as much as I remember," John chuckled, shaking his head, "I'm currently in a relationship with a certain prat...so no luck here."

"And if you weren't?"

"Weren't what?"

"In a relationship with me. For a second forget about my existence at all."

"Sherlock that's the most stupid thing I've heard yo-"

"Let's presume that I'm dead or we've never met at all. Would you involve yourself with another?"

John pulled a face at the asked, not really knowing how to react. Sherlock was most notorious for his thought provoking and manipulating attitude and of course John was always the best victim.

"That question is hardly fair, my dear." he answered eventually, scratching the back of his ear uneasily.

"Why not?" the detective snapped, an annoyed edge in his voice, obviously frustrated with having to repeat the same sentence more than once that day.

"Because if I were to say 'Yes', you wouldn't like it, and to say 'Never again' wouldn't sound nice."

"Please, John." Sherlock snorted and also made his way to the counter. "I thought you knew me better than that. This is merely a discussion of what might have been and not necessarily what will or cou-"

"Alright, alright...I see." the doctor stated in defeat, although he really could not see the point of this odd conversation. At the detective's expectant gaze, he rolled his eyes. "Well, I don't know...maybe. Perhaps."

"Perhaps?"

"Yes. Are you satisfied now?"

"Very."

The doctor nodded curtly, being relieved himself as the matter seemed to have settled down. Surprisingly he could not wait to go back to solving the recent crime. As life kept proving, civil relationship and decent talks were not a threat(or a possibility) for the couple.

"Can I borrow your phone?" asked Sherlock suddenly, snapping him out of his musings. "Mine's out of battery."

The good doctor was about to reply the automatic 'yes' before his eyes caught the sight of the other man and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to retain himself from cursing aloud. _Leave it to Sherlock to be difficult about everything_.

His flat mate was fixated on the mobile in his hand and he had his trade mark glare on his face. It was not rare or unusual to find the man supporting that facial expression, but most people usually confused his glaring face with his thinking face. Right now, however he was definitely wearing the im-so-pissed-everyone-is-an-idiot-i-want-to-kill-s omeone expression.

"Oh, no. Now that's bugging you." John heaved a sigh and turned towards his partner. "Look, Sherlock..."

"I assure you that there's nothing 'bugging' me. Now can I have the phone?"

"You're practically glowering here, so don't be ridiculous and quit doing so." the good doctor told him gently. "The truth is that I'm rather..._very_ content with what we have. And you mean a hell lot to me..."

"Sentiments, John." Sherlock cut him off impatiently, grimacing slightly at the former soldier's words. "You know, I hate those. Can we stop being tiresome now and forget that this whole conversation ever happened? By the way, I'm still waiting for your phone."

John opened and closed his mouth a few times before he could formulate a proper answer for that and just when he was about to speak up, the waitress returned with his order. He threw a warning glance at the detective and dove into his coat pocket, looking for his wallet.

Meanwhile Sherlock was not at all amused by the continuation of the events and let out an irritated groan, which went mostly ignored by the rest of the occupants of the room. The woman gave him a quizzical look and John didn't even bother to look at him, let alone, spare some time to pass him the bloody phone already!

Exasparated, the detective decided to take it upon himself to fetch the much needed tool for communication and with two measured strides he was behind John. It took him even less than that to detect the location of the doctor's phone and without a second thought Sherlock put his hand into the back pocket of his boyfriend's jeans. All the way in.

"Sherlock!" John shrieked and jumped slightly on his place, almost spilling the contents of his cup.

Taken aback by the intrusion, he could only gape at the detective who was smirking triumphantly at him and already half way through a text. By his phone.

"Would your..." the waitress sniggered. "Would your boyfriend like to have something as well?"

"My bo-...No, he is...he doesn't eat or drink when we're on a-"

"Black, two sugars." said Sherlock with a half smile. "Thank you."

* * *

The rest of the day went comparably smoothly, with them investigating a crime scene, Sherlock insulting police officers, them going to the yard and Sherlock insulting some more. Now they were sited in the lab and both were minding their own businesses...more or less.

The detective was in his usual spot in front of the microscope, completely engulfed observing an object that was believed to be evidence while John sat on a nearby chair, trying not to appear tense or frustrated. His jaw clenched as Molly let out another light giggle and continued hovering around Sherlock. Way too close to Sherlock.

Molly Hooper was a friend and a very dear one also. After they had come out as a couple, John was not sure on how the young woman had taken the news. She always tried to behave as usual in their company and even proved to be supportive and understanding towards them, but he could tell that most of the times her attitude was rather forced.

It was obvious that Molly had not entirely got ridden of her crush over the detective, although she didn't have much opportunity to display whatever emotion she was feeling during their daily basis. Sherlock had remained as unapproachable as ever, chosing not to feed her with empty hopes or wishes. Today, however, the detective turned out to be more conversable, whether it was because of the new case or he was just doing it to irritate the doctor, John didn't know.

They had not yet resolved the conflict they'd had earlier at the shop, but pride be damned, he was not going to just stand there when his boyfriend was being so shamelessly flirted with.

The detective lifted his head from the table and regarded John with a careful glance before lowering his gaze back to his task.

"You may leave if you want." he said casually, getting the doctor's full attention. "We're quite done for today any way."

_Why you snarky bastard...Fine. Two can play this game._

"Alright." John answered just as lightly and walked to the younger man. "So, see you at home?"

"Yes, of course."

John nodded, looking at Molly from the corner of his eye and before Sherlock could go back to working, he grabbed the man by his shoulders and pulled him in for a kiss. It was just a quick connection of their mouths, not quite chaste but not passionate either. Just enough to leave the detective wanting more.

"Right, I'll just go...now." the doctor grinned when they separated and with a short goodbye to a bewildered looking Molly, he made his way out of the room.

John didn't hesitate to walk away, but his steps were rather dragged and slower than usual. Maybe he was wrong thinking that Sherlock would...

"John wait!" he smirked to himself, upon hearing the breathless cry of his boyfriend and turned around to find the detective running in his direction. He watched in amusement the nearing form of Sherlock, before he realized that the man did not intend to stop at all.

John almost fell over as Sherlock closed the distance between them and the same instant his lips were on his, kissing feverishly. Instinctivly he wound an arm around the taller man's neck and as he worked Sherlock's mouth with his own, the detective's hands found their place on his hips. They stayed in their embrace for another few minutes, before John broke away, giving Sherlock's lower lip one last suck.

The detective sighed contently and pressed their foreheads together, gazing down at his flat mate with a twinkle in his eye.

"I think..." Sherlock said with a teasing smile and pecked John on the cheek. "It's you who's being ridiculous now."

The good doctor wanted to protest, to feel offended or at least try to object to that, but somehow, as he hugged the younger man closer, he couldn't agree more.

One thing was certain: they were still the two ridiculous flat mates, that were absolutely mad for each other.

**AN: Extremly looong chapter! D: The ending turned out lamely. I wanted to finish it with Sherlock going back into the lab and thanking Molly for playing along or something...but then again I was rather done with this one. I actually like Molly a lot, she's sweet and lovely. Peace.**


	11. Chapter 11

**AN: Can it be *gasps* an update? Yes, yes it can. Post Reichenbach and erm...second reunion fic. Second reunion because this chapter takes place a week after they meet and John confronts him...and basically I made up the rest.**

**A little less than poetic and** **a bit more than what I usually write for this story. So eh...enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters.**

**Chapter eleven: Miracle Mile**

The detective winces as a long-wailing scream of an ambulance car pierces the stillness of the night. And as the paramedics begin departing Sebastian Moran's unconscious form, he immediately works on getting himself away from the heated disarray of the crowd.

He sharply turns to the left as he notices an assistant make his way to him with a blanket and continues walking, all the while jerking his head in either directions, desperately looking for the one person he needs the most. Nerves of steel, a person with military history, an army doctor, a blogger, a flatmate, a friend..._his_ friend, his significant other, his one, his everything. Where is he? He has to be here! He has to...

"Sherlock!" His heart kicks into overdrive and he can barely make out the choked shout of his own name through all of the loud dum dum of the insistent organ. He turns around in time of the cry and he can feel his legs buckle under him at the sight of the short man running breathlessly towards him. _John._ He opens his mouth to speak, but a pathetic whimper is all that comes out.

The form of his best friend turned lover is nearing and an analysing part of his genius mind tells him to follow his self preservation instincts, to back away. And the memory of the punch from a week earlier isn't helping either. But another, more numb and gentler part of his self is bound not to move an inch, absolutely ready and grateful for whatever John has to offer.

However, when there is a step's distance between them, the stretched eye contact soon turns into physical one and he realizes that it is not in his former flatmate's intentions to hurt him at all.

Two strong arms wrap around him, one around his waist and another slides up and rests on his back, right between his shoulder blades. The face of his favourite man, instinctively burrows into his chest, a little below his dirty blue scarf and it seems like just then he finally allows himself to breath.

The detective returns the embrace as best as he can, wanting to get closer, to _be_ closer and not knowing how. His fingers are playing absently with John's blonde hair and for a moment he just wants to pull the man away, to actually look at him, to hope that this time when he looks into those blazing blue eyes, they'll be welcoming and soft in the contrast of hurt and angry. He can't begin to imagine how his life will proceed if right now John is to say that he has not forgiven him, that yes he has come to his rescue but that is it. An in-volunteer shudder wrecks his body and results in his flat mate stepping out of their hug. For a long time they just stare at each other before the corners of John's mouth perk up a bit and he sighs.

"God, you're okay..."the good doctor whispers, running his nose down Sherlock's cheek, caressing the smooth skin. The taller man closes his eyes, wishing to enjoy this sweet intimacy, and he is taken by surprise when John's head jolts back abruptly and the concerned gaze of his former boyfriend starts to inspect every inch of his body.

"Wait...are you _okay_? D-did he hurt you? Were we late..."

"John, I'm all right." Sherlock hurries to assure the man and takes hold of his forearms, trying to cease his frantic movements.

"Are you sure? Let me look at you."

"I'm fine, no need to worry."

The doctor gives in eventually and lets himself be pressed to Sherlock, until they're touching from chest to knees. He instantly relaxes against the calming presence of the detective and nods.

"Good...that's good." John says and places his chin on the taller man's shoulder, inhaling the unique scent, which he has long grown accustomed to and is rather fond of. "Because I thought that we wouldn't be here in time and the only thought of you...again...after..."

"John." Sherlock cuts him off gently, bringing one hand up the doctor's neck and carding it through the soft hair at the nape.

"Mmm?"

"That was a nice shot."

John pulls back slightly so that he can look into the other man's eyes properly and realises that the statement is one of Sherlock's original sentences that have hidden undertones and meanings behind it. However the detective's facial expression remains mostly unchanged; his cupid bow lips are pursed into a tight line, the sharpness of his gaze never alters, except the blue orbs are a bit watery.

Unable to resist his urges anymore, John reaches and cups the side of the detective's face...the beautiful face that is so dear to him, now looking so unmistakably tired and worn, after months of tracking down and killing assassins, after three years of isolation...after three years of being away from John.

Sherlock makes a sound of appreciation as calloused fingers find their path back to his cheek, up from his jaw to his arching bone. These same fingers begin to circle at his skin, to draw patterns and pictures, which have already been created in the past; they have just remained unused for a long while, unused but never forgotten.

"On the way here..." says John weakly, snapping the detective out of his dazed stance. "...before Lestrade had time to gather any of the officers, we had a deal..."

"I know. " Sherlock murmurs softly and arching down slightly touches the doctor's forehead with his, "You shouldn't have given him your gun." _Shouldn't have done that for me._

John doesn't exactly miss his line of thoughts. Not really. Maybe it's the broken and uncharacteristic way he pronounces those words...almost painfully. And that same instant, the good doctor thinks that perhaps it's time for any walls and lines that he has built from this man, to be destroyed and crumbled to the ground. Because in all honesty, neither of them can continue retaining and hurting each other in this way.

"It's an unlicensed weapon." John replies with a small smile and applies a bit pressure on the tips of his toes, so he is able to reach and brush his lips over one of Sherlock's temples. "He wouldn't have let me shoot otherwise." _I'd do it over and over again if that would mean you'd live._

The detective gasps at the unexpected flood of warm emotion that courses through him and for a long time he can only stare at the man in front of him. His mouth opens and closes continually, his mind seeking for a decent response. At last he only shakes his head, giving up trying to form out anything coherent or intelligent. The doctor will understand after all.

"John...John Watson." Are the only words that are whispered in pure awe and fondness. The words that have become a mantra and have kept the detective going, willing to survive over the past few years. Neither of them know how, but they are now pressed flush against each other, their mouths hovering only inches apart, but no one dares to make that much desired move.

Of course it is John who just does it...the brave soldier that he is. With a frustrated growl he takes hold of the man's lapels and pulls him down for a hard and messy kiss. A spark is lit in them at the connection of two lips that have always fitted perfectly together. After so many times of being denied to this, simply not being able to do this...the sheer frustration of it all, the loneliness, the emptiness, all of it can be described and told through that kiss.

They explore and coax in the familiarity of the other's mouth, their hands moving restlessly up and down the other's back. They make out tenderly and slowly, deeply and lovingly and Sherlock has a brief second to wonder why this feels so unusually wet. He hardly complains though and soon realizes that it's because of him, because of them...it doesn't strike him that he's also crying until John's trembling fingers start to stroke away his tears. Sherlock mimics the action and does the same for his doctor, being careful so as not to disturb the kiss.

They know that they have to pull away at some point, for many obvious reasons, some of which are because oxygen is a boring necessity for human beings and in addition to it they are still in the middle of a crowded street, where not long ago, a man has been killed.

"I will...We both will move back to Baker Street.." John breaths against the detective's slightly parted lips, making the younger man shiver pleasantly.

"Yes."

"A-and you'll go back to solving crimes..."

"_We_'ll go back to solving crimes." Sherlock corrects and nudges at the doctor's face, wanting to urge the other to go back to kissing.

"And I'll return to blogging about the cases." John chuckles lightly and presses his mouth chastely to Sherlock's.

"Certainly" The detective agrees quite bluntly and begins to cover John's face with soft kisses. They have to make up for the lost time after all.

The good doctor, as always, is more patient than Sherlock...than anyone he knows. He takes the younger man's head into his hands, gently interrupting his ministrations. At the detective's quizzical expression, he smiles warmly and removes a stain of curls from his forehead with an index finger.

"And...Sherlock, promise me one thing." says John, once he's sure he's got the man's attention.

"Anything." Sherlock replies quickly and without hesitance.

"I want you to promise me."

"I promise, John."

"I am to know about everything that involves you." The good doctor's smile fades and he cradles one of Sherlock's hands close to his heart. "Anything that has to do with you, also concerns me. "

"That's manageable." the detective says truthfully, entwining their fingers and kissing the back of John's hand.

"And no more lies." the shorter man continues and there's such a hopeful and open expression on his face, that Sherlock can feel his heart clench with guilt.

He leans down and kisses the top of John's head before hugging him again.

"I promise, John. No more lies."

**AN: I'm extremely sorry, I had no time(and opportunity) to reply to all of your amazing reviews. (I'm currently updating this from my phone and this is a highly tedious experience that I do not wish to repeat. Ever. Again.) I'll write back as soon as I get my hands on my computer. Anyway, a massive thank you for reviewing, following, reading and sticking around this fic. *virtual kisses***

**I'm thinking of an overly fluffy sequel for this. Whadya think?**


	12. Chapter 12

**AN: Told you it was going to be soon. Ah, I'll miss writing this story but I really feel like I should end this here. I hope the fluffiness of the last and final chapter makes up for it.**

**I don't feel like I should add any warnings here... sex is merely implied.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything,**

**Chapter twelve: How long will I love you?**

John smiles fondly to himself, almost disbelievingly and curls closer to the sleeping figure next to him. He buries his face into the crook of Sherlock's neck, tightening his hold around the slender man's waist. A sigh of content escapes his mouth as he just lays there, pressed up to his lover's back and listens to Sherlock's quiet snoring and soft mumbling.

There's something spectacularly satisfying in having the detective turn completely boneless and unresisting in only a small matter of time, as if it's something they've been doing all of their lives. _Right_, John thinks as he peers around the room, their clothing scattered and dropped carelessly on the floor, _maybe not all of my life, but I will gladly keep doing this for the rest of it._ Of course the bedroom is not in its peak of tidiness and they may not look neat or composed either, but there is something wonderful and dissolving about this mess. One can say that they are both quite happy with this tiny addition in their relationship. Of course it has happened far more late than either of them care to admit: a whole month and a week after Sherlock Holmes' dramatic return, if being precise.

However now, as John lightly runs his fingertips down the detective's turned back, making sure to leave a caress on every area he has touched, he finds that he doesn't really care. After a while, he props himself on one elbow, so he's lying on his side and is able to look down and see Sherlock's peaceful sleeping face and reaching a hand, strokes it through the younger man's unruly hair.

A warm smile grazes his features as he admires the fine number of love bites and marks, peppering and covering almost every inch of the detective's long elegant neck, making the creamy skin appear even paler than usual. And here it is again, that possessive and selfish part of John that just wants to mark this man forever as his own and let anyone else dare to even contemplate about attempting to try on his Sherlock.

The good doctor leans in and carefully dots a few soft kisses and nips on the man's abused neck and down to his shoulder, avoiding most of the irritated and darkened skin in the process. He hums under his breath, upon feeling the distant scent of tea, sweat and aftershave.

Then John moves his ministrations upper, kissing his forehead, then proceeding to trail feather like kisses on his cheekbones and jaw line. He knows how this must look. A man who's practically claiming somebody as his and only his, but that doesn't stop him. _God, I love this man._ The good doctor inhales sharply and as abruptly as the thought crosses his mind. Where did this come from? Has it always been there with all of the women he dated? John digs in his memories, relives some of them, desperately trying to find a positive answer but then gives up.

He sighs and hides his face in the detective's soft curls, nuzzling it with his cheek. Of course it has not existed...could not exist without Sherlock. No closeness and nothing he has ever felt for anyone can even begin to compare to what he is feeling for the detective. Even the word 'love' seems rather poor and abject to describe the strong and powerful emotion that he holds for this man.

A grin creeps into his face, as the detective nuzzles back.

"Mm...G'od mornin'." Sherlock says sleepily, a smug look on his face.

"Morning." John replies quickly and plants another soft kiss on his boyfriend's nose. "Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you."

The detective shakes his head and shifts so that he's lying on his back. He smirks slyly and moves his mouth over to John's cheek.

"Believe me, John..." Sherlock whispers, with his lips brushing the doctor's ear, his hot breath making John shiver pleasantly. "There are worse ways to be woken up to."

A grunt is his only response and once again he's being forced down into the bed, with an insistent mouth connected to his this time. They slip into the kiss as adroitly and fluently as old lovers would, who have already mastered all of the right movements and territories. In the back of their minds they know that they will have to face the world, to follow the flow of the life, but neither of them brings it up. They don't care and they want to cherish the amount of time, no matter how short, spent in the arms of the other.

John is the one to pull away first and almost the same instant his head lowers downwards and the lightest of kisses are being pressed to Sherlock's chest and belly. He can feel the detective literally melt under his touch and he feels encouraged by it, enjoying seeing the stable man squirm under him so helplessly.

"I will marry you someday, you know?" he murmurs his confession softly against heated skin. John can sense the younger man freeze and tense significantly, but doesn't think much of it.

"No. you won't." Sherlock breathes, hoping that his voice is still solid, so he'll get the other's attention. Apparently it works, as the good doctor too stops in his tracks.

"Why the hell not?" he asks seriously, looking the detective up and down, as if he will find something that will somehow explain this odd statement.

"Because."

The doctor frowns as Sherlock doesn't justify him with a proper answer and instead burrows his face into a pillow, refusing to look him in the eye.

"Oh no. Don't be like that." John says gently and guides Sherlock's face away from the mattress to meet his gaze. The detective rolls his eyes in annoyance.

"Let me guess, my face is doing a thing." he says matter of factly and is about to return to his previous position, but his boyfriend doesn't let him to, holding his face firmly trapped between his hands.

"Exactly. So will you be bothered to tell me what's this all about?"

"John, do you hear yourself?" Sherlock snorts, sitting up a bit and leaning his back on the headboard of the bed. "I don't mind you or me getting sentimental, but this... this is a madhouse. You may want to run till you've got the chance."

The detective carries on talking, chattering about the most absurd things possible and John can't formulate a worthy come back, he's left listening with his mouth agape.

"You..." he swallows a lump and points an accusing finger at the detective. "You better stop this nonsense right now...or I think I'll just punch you again."

"Problem?"

"Oh no. Everything's absolutely fine."

"Sarcasm."

"Nice deduction."

"I just don't understand..." says Sherlock irritably, switching into a sitting position and taking John's hands into his, bigger ones. "Why would that upset you...Why would you want to marry someone.." _like me._

He doesn't finish the sentence and he doesn't need to. The good doctor understands anyway and the only sight of Sherlock, looking at him with those sad puppy eyes, honest confusion shown in them, is enough to make John's heart swell with an aching emotion. So much for being the most observant man in the world.

"God, you're just too thick, are you?" he murmurs with a small smile and moves closer to the younger man. The detective doesn't shift away but doesn't react in any way either.

"Because I want this, you idiot. I want you. I need you. More than you'll ever imagine." John speaks with new found passion and envelopes the skinny man into a tight embrace, proceeding to whisper his words softly against the other man's ear. "Last night...I want to spend every night like that. Here and with you. For the rest of my days."

"John..." Sherlock gasps quietly his hands gripping frantically at John's forearms. He has never suspected for the good doctor to be the talkative type and...how do you call this? Romantic? Sentimental? Whatever name the display goes by, it is making Sherlock heady, for each word is filling a hole in his soul.

And just like that he realises that spending and sharing every second of his time with this man, might be about the best thing in the world. Definitely better than anything. But for now he shuts up, letting the good doctor speak and list the ridiculous number of things they will surely do in the future. God, he hopes so with every aspect of his body.

"When we're old and grumpy and retired..." John continues, stroking the side of Sherlock's neck with a thumb."...we'll get a cottage in the out-town or something, you'll keep bees... just as you wanted..."

"Please I have to..." The detective whimpers under his strong hand, trying to express a coherent thought. Dating really is not his area but now even he feels obliged to at least participate in this conversation. Or else he's risking to lose the one person that matters the most.

"And for God's sake, Sherlock, stop wondering how long I will love you!" The good doctor breaths a laugh and presses a kiss on Sherlock's curls. "I know that I'll love you till the very end and longer if I can."

Sherlock's bottom lip quivers uncontrollably and a sob like sound escapes his mouth.

"Oh John..." How does one resist upon hearing something like this? How can you conquer your own body's weaknesses? Does it always feel like this? To have someone rather than yourself to care about?

By this point John has him gathered in his lap, with his arms snaked around Sherlock's middle and makes soothing noises, trying to calm his dearest friend's nerves.

"I need you Sherlock, and I'll need you as long as you need me too." He pronounces into the detective's shoulder, glad that his words are not entirely muffled and blocked out by it. John lets out a contented sigh as Sherlock's lips travel down and to the sweet spot on his neck.

"I'll always need you, John." the detective whispers huskily, but there is not a trace of doubt in his statement. His voice doesn't waver now and the doctor knows that he means it completely.

"Good. Yes." John gurgles and kisses Sherlock tenderly on the lips. "That's very good."

* * *

They don't make it out of bed after all. A dreamlike peace overtakes them as they spend their time enjoying and coaxing in the presence of the other. And if in the pit of the day, Sherlock mumbles, half sleepy and half conscious, that he reciprocates the sentiment, John finds that he could not have been happier elsewhere.

**AN: And they lived happily ever after. It's fair to say that I could've done a better job at it. Hope you liked it anyway.**

**Once again tones of thank you to everyone who read this fic and not to mention your amazing and flattering responses. Writing Johnlock truly is something remarkable and I'll surely try it again in the future. [btw. do you perhaps know how one gets a beta reader?]**


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